


like a clock in a thunderstorm

by shellybelle



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, The Good Ship C/N Promptathon of Magic and Joy, Thunderstorms, i don't really know how, somehow this turned into smut, ugh my feelings for this ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-10 16:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellybelle/pseuds/shellybelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha is a quiet mind raised in silence, Clint a whirlwind raised in chaos. In the early days of their partnership they are drowning under the weight of unanswered questions, and when the heavens open, Natasha breaks, and Clint is a good man after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a clock in a thunderstorm

**Author's Note:**

> Written for flying_android, who gave this prompt in the Good Ship C/N Promptathon of Magic and Joy: _Rainstorms. Thunderstorms. Sex, intense conversations, playing in puddles, epic adventures, in any/all of the previous. Clint and/or Natasha soaked to the skin would be very nice._

_“Quiet minds can't be perplexed or frightened,_

_but go on in fortune or misfortune at their own private pace,_

_like a clock during a thunderstorm.”_ __

_Robert Louis Stevenson_

 

“So help me, Barton,” Natasha said, “if the safehouse doesn’t come fully equipped with a decent shower, I’ll kill every single agent in the place.”

 

“Could you not?” Clint’s sides shook slightly against hers. “I’ve got stuff to do when we get back to New York. It’d be kind of an inconvenience to not get it done.”

 

“You’ll be dead. You won’t care.”

 

Clint laughed, shifting his weight slightly off his bad leg. “Fair.”

 

The mission should have been a simple one, in-and-out recon. But then, Natasha thought, flexing her fingers around Clint’s wrist, they were all supposed to be in-and-out recon. To be fair, the intel had been flawed, not their own actions, but the sentries were in the wrong place and the tranq arrows in Clint’s quiver had malfunctioned, and everything had plummeted downhill from there. Clint had gotten between Natasha and a bullet, deflecting it with his bow but losing his footing in the process, wrenching his knee in the rough terrain, and they’d spent three hours burrowed in the jungle brush, waiting for the guerillas to give up their search before they could make their way to the SHIELD safehouse.

 

Natasha rolled her neck, adjusting Clint’s arm where it lay over her shoulders. The air was thick with humidity and thunder rumbled above them, close enough to send a twinge of worry down the back of her spine. “It’s going to storm,” she said.

 

“Any minute,” Clint agreed. Thin lines had appeared around his lips, one of the few tells he had—or at least one of the few Natasha had been able to learn to identify—that revealed pain. Natasha stopped walking.  
  


“How bad is the knee?”

 

Clint dropped his arm from around her shoulders, propping himself against a tree so she could slide down to her knees in order to prod around his thigh, calf, and kneecap to look for swelling. “It’s not broken or dislocated,” he said.

 

His voice was strained with pain. And, Natasha thought with a smirk, something else, something a little more primal. Satisfied he was telling the truth about the injury, she sat back on her heels and looked up at him, one hand resting on his hip. She could feel the warmth of his skin through the natural fibers of his SHIELD uniform; South America was no place for close-fitting clothing, and they’d both left their leathers in New York. “Barton,” she began, and then, “Clint.”

 

“It’s fine.” He pulled her to her feet. “Come on. We’ve got half a mile to the safehouse and this storm’s rolling in fast.”

 

She offered him her arm and he took it without question, letting her support part of his weight as they set out again.

 

The jungle was vibrant, bright and loud and vivid even in the humid cloudiness. It made Natasha nervous and she knew Clint could feel the lines of tension in her shoulders, in her neck, in the grip of her fingers around his wrist. In the Red Room they’d taught her to be quiet in body and mind, to watch and listen and learn, to be seen and not heard. She thrived in dark, noiseless rooms; rooms where she could light candles and turn down soft bedsheets and draw men in and down, wrapping them in her arms and thighs and kissing their breath away with her widow’s lips. She liked it when the world was silent and still, when she could hear the barest hitch of breath, the faintest click of a pistol, the tiniest flicker of a pulse. She liked it when she could track even the slightest movement from under her lashes, when every factor was hers to manipulate.

 

Natalia Romanova, the Black Widow, was not made for jungles.

 

Lightning flashed and thunder crashed above them, and Natasha didn’t even have time to flinch before the sky opened up. They were drenched in seconds, plastering Natasha’s hair, already damp with sweat, to her skull and face. She groaned, adding the rain to her growing list of dangerous variables outside her control.

 

But beside her, Clint was laughing, his face tilted to the heavens. He blinked water from his eyes, stepping away from her, ignoring his bad leg and turning in a slow circle, his arms stretched out. _But of course_ , Natasha thought, because where she was quiet, Clint was loud. He was raised amongst chaos and movement, always shifting, flowing like river rapids. Clint was a man who has learned how to dance in thunderstorms, while Natasha was taught to flee at the barest drop of rain.

 

“Clint,” she said, “Come on. We need to get to the safehouse.”

 

“Relax, Tasha,” he shot back, and she flinched at the nickname. She had killed men for trying to be so familiar, but something in Clint’s voice stopped her from snapping at him. “We’ll get there eventually.”

 

He set off walking, this time without her support. His steps were unsteady, his bad leg dragging slightly, but he moved with purpose and energy, as if the rain had given him new life. It ran down his face in streams and he lifted his head and started to sing, the thunder and the crash of rain on the trees drowning out most of the sound. He had a smooth, powerful voice and Natasha followed him with a lump in her throat.

 

Clint Barton confused her, and she hated to be confused. He moved through his missions with an almost accidental precision—she could never tell if he had exacting control or just incredible good luck. He chatted incessantly over the comms and took orders only when it suited him (and perhaps she should be grateful for that, since it was the reason she was alive, but in a partner it was not the best of qualities). He was sarcastic and never serious and laughed too easily, but he was fastidiously loyal and never failed to triple-check her position during any op, and today he had jumped in front of a bullet for her.

 

It had taken her a moment to realize it. She’d heard the shot but hadn’t had time to move, and before she could react Clint was there, angling his body in front of hers and bracing the broad front of his bow to deflect the bullet. And then he’d gone down, sliding in the mud, and Natasha’s heart skipped a beat until she realized that the jungle floor, not the bullet, had taken him down.

 

And then she’d hauled him up and they’d been running, but it still stuck in her head, the sound of the bullet, the warmth of his body when he’d moved in front of her, the shock when he fell. She’d watched him hit the ground and she’d felt—what? Fear? Panic? Sorrow? It was all of that, yes, but something else, too, something that simultaneously chilled her to the bone and set her veins to boiling.

 

The feeling came back now, burning through her, and she pushed her sopping hair back, the rain pouring down around her, watching him as he walked. Every now and then he stopped to lean against a tree and flex his knee and the feeling got worse, and suddenly Natasha recognized it as _anger_ , and not the cool, calculating rage that the Red Room allowed her but a hotter, fiercer feeling that made her want to reach out and shake him, and she stopped in her tracks, words forcing their way past her throat before she could stop them.

 

“You tried to take a bullet for me,” she shouted.

 

Even with her voice raised, the wind and the rain threatened to swallow her words. But Clint had sharp ears and he stopped, turning slowly to face her. The rain had soaked his clothing against him and she could see every line of his body defined in black. Water poured down his face and even from her distance she could see the drops that clung to his lashes. He was not a handsome man, Natasha thought, not really, but she often found her eyes drawn to him all the same. “Yes,” he said, barely projecting, the wind carrying his words over to her, and she clenched her fists at her sides.

 

“ _Why?_ ”

 

Clint barked out a laugh, swiping one gauntleted hand through his soaked hair. “ _Why?_ Natasha—why do you _think_?”

 

And then it made sense.

 

His easy laugh, the way he coaxed her to smile instead of simply cocking a brow. His constant attention, his boisterous presence at her side at SHIELD headquarters, daring any junior agent to question her. The way he turned away when she stripped during missions, his quiet insistence that he had no right to look at her body unless she wanted him to. The touch of his hands, adjusting her draw when he taught her to shoot a bow, smoothing brown dye into her hair over a sink, brushing her fingertips across the table in the mess hall—always soft, always careful, always giving her room to pull away.

 

Natasha stared at him, drenched, water in her eyes, and Clint stared right back, unwavering. “Now you know,” he said, holding her gaze. “So what are you going to do?”

 

The ground was soaked beneath her feet and made her steps sluggish where they should have been purposeful. But all the same, it took only a second for her to reach him, to grab him, to wrench his lips down against hers.

 

Clint’s reaction time had always been perfect, and in an instant his arms were around her, pulling her body taut against his. He tangled one hand in her hair, brought the other up to curl around her jaw, and he kissed her like no man had ever kissed her before, with _feeling_ , with energy, but with care, like at any second he could be ten feet away and waiting for her to make the next move. Natasha hooked her fingers into his belt and jerked his hips against hers and Clint chuckled against her mouth, pushed her hair back, kissed her deeper, harder. She wrapped her arms around his neck and _jumped_ , heedless of his leg, and she wrapped her thighs around his waist. It took less than a second for him to steady himself, to turn on one heel and push her back against the nearest tree and jerking her shirt free of her belt, hauling it her shoulders. Her tank top was just as drenched, clinging to her skin, and Clint bent his head, mouthing at her breasts through the thin, soaked fabric, and Natasha hissed through her teeth, grabbing his face and pulling him up to kiss him again. His tongue slipped into her mouth, hot and wet, and Natasha ground her hips down, shoving her fingers under his shirt, pressing them to his skin, wet and chilled under her questing fingertips, and he shuddered under her touch. His hands found their way to her breasts, kneading hard, and Natasha cried out, arching against him, tightening the grip of her legs around him and wriggling against the press of his cock between her legs.

 

He groaned as she ground down against him and he pulled away from her, breaking the kiss. Natasha tried to follow him and he stopped her with the slight tightening of his fingers in her hair. “No,” he said, and his voice was hoarse. “Not here. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it properly.”

 

The rain only got worse as they stumbled and kissed the remaining quarter mile to the safehouse, a mostly-hidden, one-story structure on the edge of the jungle. Clint swiped his ID card through the panel hidden on the side of the door and kicked it open with his good leg before dragging Natasha inside and scooping her up again, pressing her up against the wall and burying his hands in her hair. Natasha scrambled to pull him closer and moaned into his mouth when he slipped one hand under her tank and pushed her bra to one side, cupping her breast in his hand and pinching her nipple between calloused fingers. She jerked her hips against him, the friction of their wet clothing sending hot bolts of heat between her legs. 

 

“Um,” someone said, and they broke apart to see a pair of junior agents standing in the doorway to the next room, gaping at them. “Agent Barton? You missed your check-in.”

 

“Yes, I did,” Clint said, like he didn’t have one hand on her tit and the other working her pants open. “Fury’s intel was shit. Get out.”

 

One of the agents blinked. “But. Uh. It’s raining.”

 

“Get out of that _room_ , then,” Clint snapped. “And call Coulson with him. Tell him Agent Romanov and I are fine, that the mission went to shit, and that if anyone calls us in the next two hours for anything other than an international emergency, they’re getting an arrow to the genitals. _Out_.”

 

The junior agents scampered and Clint swooped Natasha around to get his arms around her, carrying her into the next room—small, sparsely furnished, one exit and a window, neatly made bed, easy to defend and trap—and kicking the door shut, dropping her almost unceremoniously on the bed. He pulled his shirt over his head, kneeling down to strip her boots, socks, pants and underwear off her in quick, skilled motions. Her legs were wet and cold and she shivered as they were bared to the open air, and then she shivered again as Clint ran his hands up her thighs and parted her legs with ease, pressing kisses to the insides of her knees before looking up at her, eyes hot, pupils blown with desire. “Natasha,” he said, and the sound of her name in his voice brought a moan to his lips. “I need to hear you say it.”

 

“Yes,” she breathed. “Clint. _Yes_.”

 

Clint _groaned_ , low and deep in his throat, and bent his head between her legs. Between the kissing and the grinding and his fingers on her breasts, she was wet and ready for him, and she made to grab at his shoulders to pull him up and into her, but the hot slide of his tongue along her slit stopped her. He swiped his tongue over her and then closed his mouth around her clit, and a strangled moan made it past her lips before she forced her mouth shut, clapping her hand over her mouth. Clint lifted his head and reached up to pull her hand away. “Don’t,” he said hoarsely. “I want to hear you.” Natasha rolled her head toward the door, thinking of the junior agents, and Clint gave her a wicked grin. “Please. Like they’d say anything.”

 

He sounded so sure that she laughed despite herself, and Clint laughed with her, placing a last kiss to her clit before moving up her body, pushing his pants and boxers down as he went. She caught a glimpse of his cock, hard and thick between his legs, and then he was kissing over her breasts, sucking her nipples into his mouth one at a time, and Natasha arched against him, shifting until he lay between her legs, the head of his cock pressing against her. “Fuck,” Clint whispered. “Condom, we need—I don’t have—”

 

“It’s fine,” Natasha said, “Don’t worry,” but Clint shook his head, reaching past her to the small table beside the bed.

 

“Sometimes they leave a bunch here,” he said, tugging the drawer open. “If we’re lucky—yes.” He pulled one foil-wrapped square from the drawer and pulled it open, and Natasha took it from him, reaching between their bodies to roll it down onto him. His skin was taut and warm under her fingers and his breath hitched when she touched him, and Natasha pressed her lips to his cheek before grabbing his shoulders and rolling them on the bed so she could straddle him. “Natasha,” he breathed, and she kissed him, long and deep, sinking down onto him.

 

He was longer than he looked and the stretch was perfect, and it had been ages since she’d felt this, longer still since she’d wanted it. “Yes,” she whispered, and didn’t know what she was saying yes _to_ until Clint rolled his hips, thrusting into her from below her, his hands cupping her face and his lips finding hers. Their skin was soaked from rain and sweat, Natasha’s hair dripping into both their eyes, and Clint sat up, the angle of his thrusts changing, and Natasha cried out before she could stop herself.  

 

“God, yes,” Clint hissed against her lips, and Natasha jerked her hips against his, whimpering, trying to bite back on the sound. “No, don’t, don’t you dare, I want to hear everything,” he gasped, and when he thrust in again she didn’t bother to stifle her cry, clenching her thighs hard around him. “That’s my girl,” he whispered, “that’s my good girl, come on, Tasha, let me feel you come for me—”

 

And then she was lost, shuddering above him, her hands grasping at his shoulders and her lips crashing down onto his, so hard their teeth knocked together, and Clint groaned into her mouth, his hips still moving, working her through the orgasm and managing to tip her into another one, and this time he came with her, his fingers threading through her wet hair, his lips softening against hers.

 

Natasha clutched him against her, gasping, and they toppled back against the mattress together, Clint’s arms coming hard around her. She laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes, listening to the pounding of his heart, breathing in time to the even, steady rhythm. The sound was soothing, contrasted against the rain that pounded on the roof and the intermittent cracks of thunder, and Natasha shifted to settle more comfortably on top of him.

 

“Tasha,” he mumbled, “we need to clean up.” She shook her head against his chest and he pressed his lips to her wet hair. “Fine,” he said, “it’s your UTI.”

 

She made a face and sat up, squeezing him inside her just to hear him groan before easing off him, holding the base of the condom in place. She padded into the tiny bathroom, her bare feet slapping on the wet floor, shutting the door behind her and sitting down to pee and clean up, turning the sink on with her elbow to wash her hands. She met her own eyes in the small mirror above the sink and took in her reflection, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, her hair soaked and mussed, damp strands sticking to her face.

 

There was a rap at the door. “Tash?” Clint said, and his voice sounded hesitant. “Are you okay? It’s fine if you’re freaking out, but it would be great if you could let me know.”

 

Natasha turned off the faucet, dried her hands, and opened the door. Clint had pulled his wet boxers back on and Natasha could see the purple-red swelling around his knee, but he seemed to be ignoring it, his weight placed evenly. She stepped chest-to-chest with him and put her hands on his waist and looked up at him. “How long?”

 

“Always,” he said, simply. “Since the day I made the call to bring you in.”

 

“Why?”

 

And that was the question. It had always been the question, since the day he’d put down his bow and held out his hand. Clint looked at her, long and thoughtful, and then he lifted a hand to tuck a few wet pieces of hair behind her ear. “Because,” he said, “you were there, and you were breathing, but you looked at me you were drowning, like you could swim just fine in quiet water, but it was storming, and you couldn’t tread water hard enough.”

 

Natasha exhaled a laugh. “And you wanted to save me.”

 

“No,” Clint said. “But I thought I could help you get your head above the water.” He slid his arms around her and she let him; his skin was warm against hers. “I’m not a hero, Tasha,” he said, his lips brushing hers. “But I can be a good man.”

 

“A good man in a storm,” Natasha breathed, and Clint smiled.

 

“Yes.”

 

He kissed her, and the rain came down.


End file.
